


we could be together (if you wanted to)

by phoenix_rose (phoenix_ascended)



Category: British Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF, Scottish Actor RPF, Welsh Actor RPF
Genre: AU, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Bleed, First Meetings, First Time, M/M, On Set Shenanigans, Pining, Rimming, They meet earlier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:37:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22668727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenix_ascended/pseuds/phoenix_rose
Summary: It’s February 2015. Last year, Taron finished filmingThe Smokeand his first real breakthrough,Kingsman, is about to come out. Richard has finished inGame of Thronesand has just doneKlondikebut other than that, he’s in between jobs —Cinderellais just around the corner. Friends keep telling them they have to meet... so they go on a blind date. It’s incendiary...Years later, they’re cast in a film as lovers and have to pretend they’ve never met before.
Relationships: Taron Egerton/Richard Madden
Comments: 62
Kudos: 96





	1. 2015

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heavensfallingaroundus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/gifts), [regulsh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/regulsh/gifts).

> This fic was inspired by a line in regulsh's story ['like a house on fire'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21793042) — in a comment on that last December I said "I've always thought that about the phrase 'house on fire' too. It makes me want to write a version where it is like that — dangerous, incendiary, unstable". Thank you for your amazing writing.
> 
> And so I did. But of course, heavensfallingaroundus was mildly horrified that I was planning a tragedy and begged me for a happy ending (okay, let's be real, I wasn't that hard to convince). Thanks also for your unflagging support and beta reading.
> 
> This is also inspired by that lovely BFF interview Richard and Taron did where they described being in the same restaurant years before they met and not saying hello. This is the alternate history of what might have happened if they did...
> 
> Also, fair warning, this first part is pretty much just porn.

Taron laughs lightly as Richard Madden — like, Richard “Robb Stark” Madden — waves at him across the restaurant. He waves back and the man gets up, comes over, pulls out the chair opposite him, sits down. 

“Fecking hell, it’s really you,” Taron says. “I thought Luke was fully pulling my leg when he set this up. Thought it was a prank…”

Richard shifts awkwardly, tugs at his pants leg. “Honestly, same,” he says. “That’s why I sat myself across the way — plausible deniability, eh?”

Fuck, the man is even more stunning close up. The red curls, the blue, blue eyes. Taron looks down, then picks up his beer. Looks back up. 

“So, if you’re here, then…” he fumbles the pass. “I mean, Jenna and you…”

“...broke up three months ago.”

Taron drinks. “Sorry to hear that.”

Richard looks at him, a kind of searching look, like he’s waiting for the trap to spring. Taron’s never seen anyone quite so… controlled. 

“It’s not public yet but…” He takes a breath. “I don’t generally agree to blind dates when I’m still dating someone,” Richard says, carefully. And Taron looks up again, eyes wide, glances around. 

“Ah,” says Richard. He signals to a waiter for a menu. “How do you know Luke, then?”

“Y’know, we Welshmen stick together, I guess. He’s taken me under his wing, a bit. You?”

“Met him on holidays in Ibiza. We have…” There’s a minuscule pause, that Taron wouldn’t spot if he wasn’t attuned to cadence and tempo, “...similar tastes.”

It’s Taron’s turn to say, “Ah,” this time. God, his heart is racing. 

“So, Luke suggested we’d get on like a house on fire,” says Richard. 

“What,” quips Taron, “destructive and unstoppable?”

“I was thinking more incendiary and all-consuming,” says Richard, his eyes boring into Taron’s, and Jesus, that’s just — 

Taron’s breath catches and he discovers he’s biting his lip. Richard is only three years older than him, but apparently the difference between 28 and 25 is suave as fuck. He takes another sip of his beer as the waiter comes over and Richard orders a bottle of Pinot Noir and some share plates. 

He turns back to Taron. “But you’re the man of the hour, I hear. _ Kingsman_, right? Big break. Seen the trailers — it looks _ phenomenal. _”

“You’re too kind. But yeah, been an incredible experience. Working with Colin Firth and doing all the action stuff. Just amazing.” He raises the glass to his lips again, drains off the rest. “What are you working on, at the moment?” Taron asks him.

“Would you believe Prince Charming?” laughs Richard.

Taron laughs along with him. “I meant, what films…”

“So did I…” laughs Richard. “I’m dead serious. You are looking at the next Prince Charming, in Disney’s _Cinderella_, thank you very much.”

“Get out of town.”

“Opposite Lily James. We start Monday.”

“I’m sure she’ll be swept off her feet,” Taron says, projecting. He’s already charmed. “Tall, dark and handsome — well, two out of three…”

“Oh, they’re dyeing this mop. And cutting it. It’ll be the dull, traditional trio, clean cut, the lot.”

“Pity…” says Taron, “I like the curls… and the stubble…” He’s flirting openly now, can’t help himself. Richard’s eyes flash, just a moment of want, but it’s enough. The wine arrives, followed by the plates of confit salmon and quail eggs and something else he can’t at first identify, but is pretty sure is some kind of shellfish. It’s all delicious, and they fall back into small talk as they eat, and it would all be just two actors, having a casual lunch at the Wolseley, if it weren’t for Richard’s foot brushing the inside of Taron’s ankle a few too many times to be accidental.

“Want to get out of here?” Richard says, after far too bloody long. And Taron can’t say yes fast enough.

* * *

“Drink?” says Richard once they’re through the door and into the lounge room.

“Ah, maybe water?” says Taron. While Richard heads into the kitchen area, Taron takes a moment to look around the place. The house is not at all what he was expecting for someone like Richard — it’s almost a bungalow, big lounge, open kitchen, corridor leading down to what he presumes are the bedrooms. The place is incredibly tidy — almost ascetic — barely anything on surface areas, apart from a fancy blue vase, one large bookshelf against the wall opposite the bar, filled with neatly sorted plays and autobiographies of famous film stars. He can see _ Uncle Vanya_, and three different editions of the complete works of Shakespeare, one with folio notes. There are neatly framed posters of 1930s and 40s playbills on the other walls, but it doesn’t go with the furniture. The whole place looks like someone’s idea of what an adult ought to want, but it doesn’t feel like — well, if Taron’s honest, he has no idea who Richard is, only knows his characters. So —

Richard’s back with the glasses, and hands him one. His fingers brush against Taron’s as he takes it, and Taron feels the tingle go straight to his toes. He takes a sip of his water, swallows. Nods towards the bookshelf, takes a step towards it. 

“I think I have half of those. Always thought I’d be happy enough if I just ended up as a jobbing actor in the West End, y’know?” 

Richard steps to his side, and looks at the shelves with him. “Yeah, me too. Still love the theatre.” He looks across at Taron, sips his water and then puts it down carefully on a coaster. Takes Taron’s glass from him and does the same. Taron takes a breath, steadies himself.

Richard turns to him, catches his fingers in his and tangles them together. Taron’s eyes flick to Richard’s lips and back up, and Richard’s do the same to him. He steps impossibly closer. His other hand goes to the back of Taron’s neck and draws him in. They’re almost the same height, Taron thinks, as he closes his eyes without thinking, tilts his head slightly and then there are warm lips on his. He opens his mouth to gasp slightly at the intensity and Richard’s tongue darts against the inside of his lip, against his tongue, and he chases it back into Richard’s mouth, a slow, delicate dance. Richard tastes ever so faintly of the wine they were drinking earlier and of nicotine, but also of himself, like woodsmoke and pine somehow.

Taron pulls back just millimetres and murmurs, “Your _ lips… _”

Richard is still right there, that expanse of perfect skin and those aquamarine eyes, those plush red lips. “Yeah?” he asks.

“So _ soft_.”

Richard smiles, and leans in to kiss Taron again. Taron’s hands find their way into Richard’s curls and he’s in heaven.

He’s getting lightheaded when he pulls back again, to take a breath.

“Sorry,” he says. “Haven’t done this before and I don’t quite know the etiquette…”

“Um. The blind date part of it or the kissing a guy part of it?”

Taron makes a point of kissing Richard again, slow and lazy, biting the man’s lip a little as he pulls back to speak. 

“Uh, the going back to the blind date’s house in the middle of the afternoon part, actually.”

Richard slides his hand down Taron’s back to thread a thumb through one of his belt loops, tugs his hips closer. “Is that a request to move this to a bedroom?”

The situation in Taron’s jeans is getting crowded now, his buttons pressed against his hardening cock. He tries to resist squirming. 

“Er, the loo first, maybe?” he says, awkward and shy. 

“Of course,” says Richard smoothly. “Second door on the left as you go down… and Taron?”

“Yeah?” says Taron, breathless again. 

“My door’s the next one after that. I’ll see you in there?”

* * *

Taron takes another deep breath outside the bedroom door. He feels like he hasn’t been able to get a full lungful for hours now. What the hell is happening, that he’s about to walk into a bedroom and — hopefully, god, _ hopefully _— have mindblowing sex with Richard Madden. 

How is _ any _of this possible? 

He runs a palm across his thigh, wiping off the sweat that gives away his nerves, and pushes the door open. Richard has taken his shirt and shoes off, and is sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at his phone. He puts it to the side when Taron comes in, and smiles up at him. Taron can't look away — mesmerised by those piercing blue eyes, framed by auburn curls and the matching goatee.

There’s music playing softly in the background and Taron realises it’s Arctic Monkeys. Feels like everyone fell in love with that album last year, and he’s no exception. He sings a few lines along with the track.

_ It's not like I'm falling in love, I just want ya _ _  
_ _ To do me no good _ _  
_ _ And you look like you could _

Richard grins at him. “You can actually sing.”

“So I’m told,” says Taron with a smile. “Benefit of being Welsh, again, I guess. You don’t? Sing?”

“Not if I can help it. So…” Richard bats his eyelashes at Taron. “Wanna do me no good?”

“Thought you’d never ask.” 

Taron walks over to where Richard is sitting, and Richard spreads his legs a little for Taron to stand between them, rests his hands on Taron’s hips. Taron leans down to Richard’s upturned face and kisses him again, sweet, and gentle. Sucks his top lip when Richard gasps and tightens his grip. Taron sinks his left hand into Richard’s curls again and tugs slightly, a frisson going through his entire body when Richard moans deeply at that. Richard’s hands come up off his hips and untuck Taron’s shirt from his jeans, slide underneath and up Taron’s flanks.

“Jesus Christ,” Richard breathes. “You’re pure muscle.”

Taron smiles against the top of Richard’s head. “Enjoy that while it lasts,” he says. “It’s not standard, I can assure you.”

‘I want to… let me…” He’s already unbuttoning the shirt, starting at the bottom, pushing it open as he goes, and Taron knows he looks good right now, has only really broken the insane diet in the last week since the premiere, and he preens a little under the attention.

“Like what you see?”

“_Fuck _ yes,” Richard groans, muffled against Taron’s abs, mouthing at the hard planes of him. It’s so hot, Taron can’t help but tighten his fist in Richard’s hair and push him in a little against his skin.

The track shifts to _ Mad Sounds _ and Richard’s fingers shimmy down Taron’s back to the top of his waistband, skim around to the front and start to unbutton his jeans. Taron’s cock is straining now, he’s so stiff, and he can feel himself throb at just the thought of what’s about to happen. He toes off his shoes as Richard pulls the denim and his underwear down. Richard moans at the sight of Taron’s thick cock as it springs free from his pants, leans down to kiss its tip and gently moves Taron towards the bed. 

Richard manoeuvers Taron onto his back and clambers up over him, ducks his head to lick at Taron’s shaft, up and down. Taron groans, his fingers tangled again at the nape of Richard’s neck, concentrates on staying still, even though he’s desperate to thrust up. Richard swallows him down, all the way to the back of his throat, and ever-so-slowly slides back up again in time to the music. Richard’s hands are tight on Taron’s muscular thighs, stroking up, down in sync with his rhythm. It’s incredible. It’s everything Taron imagined. He squirms under the intensity of the sensation, spreads his legs slightly, wanting more. 

He throws a hand over his face as the sensation builds; Richard is going so slowly, it’s excruciating. Taron tunes back into the song just as Richard swirls his tongue over Taron’s cockhead and dips back down. Taron laughs a little as he realises Richard just bought himself some time so that he’s bobbing up to coincide with each time the lyric says _ up_.

“Very cute,” he says. And then, “_God! _” as Richard sinks all the way down again, then takes him deep into his throat.

Richard comes back up again, licks down to Taron’s balls and goes to dip further down still. _ Oh, god. _ He’s so glad he took that extra time to wash up, earlier, but he still needs to tell him. He can’t just keep pretending he’s experienced here.

“Wait, wait,” says Taron, tugging him back up. “Um.”

Richard slots his legs between Taron’s and strokes his cheek with gentle fingertips, gazing concerned into Taron’s eyes. “What is it?”

“So… er… I might not have done _ this _ bit before.” Taron waits for the snort of contempt, 23 and still a virgin? Richard just looks at him, strokes his face again. He hastens to reassure him anyway. “I mean, I want to… don’t get me wrong; I _ really _ want to.”

Richard smiles. “Don’t worry. I’m a little out of practice too. Four years, you know? Do you trust me?”

Taron looks at Richard — really thinks about it for a moment. This is _ Richard Madden_. He’s a fellow actor. He’s risking so much here. But Taron’s never felt more comfortable naked with someone in his life. He feels a lump in his throat and nods. Richard leans forward and kisses Taron gently on the lips, his fingers trailing down Taron’s chest, across his taut belly, the V of his hips, kisses down, sucks a nipple into his mouth, licks into his belly button to make him laugh and then, as the chorus of _ Fireside _ swells, pushes his leg up and back, licks down the sensitive inside of his thigh and then the exposed rosebud of his furled hole. Taron gasps and his legs fall open further. “_Oh my god…” _

He can feel Richard smile against him and then he licks in deeper, reaches a hand up to stroke Taron’s length as he does. Taron loses himself in it, the wet warmth at his entrance, the shivers across his flesh every so often, the throb of his cock as it leaks pre-cum onto his abs. But then he can’t concentrate, as the track changes again — can’t do this to _ Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High. _ He drags Richard back up again, scrabbles at his shoulders as he giggles, his leg still raised.

“Interesting choice of music,” he laughs.

Richard laughs too. “Look, the only other CD in there was Sinatra.”

“What, no Barry White?” teases Taron, and Richard brings his hand down on Taron’s butt playfully, a short, sharp sound followed immediately by Taron’s aroused, breathless, “_ohhh”. _

“_Really_?” says Richard, intrigued and flirty. “Well, I can definitely work with _ that_.”

Taron blushes to the roots of his hair and tries to cover his face again. 

“No, no,” soothes Richard. “Don’t be embarrassed. I love that. But first, let me change the music. You’re right…” He scrabbles off the bed, goes over to the CD player and ejects the disc, puts it carefully back into its jewel case. “Any requests?” he asks.

“Maybe… Otis Redding? Or some jazz?”

“How about…” Richard surveys the cases in the tower next to the player. “Café del Mar? In honor of Luke, and Ibiza, for bringing us together?”

“Sounds good.”

And then Richard is stripping off his jeans, finally, and Taron gets to see the full glory of his cock, slimmer than Taron’s but longer, standing out proud from that nest of strawberry curls, the matching treasure trail connecting up to the lush fur on the man’s chest, and Taron realises his mouth is literally watering as the strains of Kinobe’s _ Slip into Something More Comfortable _ start to waft across the room, and _ isn’t that appropriate_, Taron thinks, finally raising his eyes again to meet Richard’s piercing gaze. Taron feels raw, exposed, completely seen, all of a sudden, as if Richard is a predator and he is helpless in the face of all that unbridled desire.

“Jesus, Taron. You’re just _ magnificent_. I cannae _ believe _ ye’re in _ my bed_.”

Taron lowers his eyes, flushed at the praise. “You’ll have to come over here and pinch me to see if I’m real,” he says, cheeky, hopeful.

Richard climbs back onto the bed, straddles Taron and leans down over him, framing him, takes a nipple between forefinger and thumb and pinches, slowly but firmly. “Like this?” he asks as Taron arches up into it.

“Yeah, yes, _ please…” _ gasps Taron, and Richard smiles again, wicked, smug.

“Turn over,” says Richard. “I’m going to need access to that plush arse of yours.” Taron just raises an eyebrow and does as he’s told, bracing himself on elbows and knees.

Richard runs his palms down Taron’s hips, across the smooth curve of his bum, uses his fingers to spread his cheeks again and licks into him. Taron tightens his fingers into the sheet, pushes his chest down into the bed as he arches his back and pushes his arse up towards Richard, shameless, the noises coming from him low. 

“So,” says Richard, “Let me know if anything I do makes you uncomfortable, y’hear?” Taron just nods, can’t quite find his voice right then.

Richard licks up Taron’s crack, one flat wet slide of his tongue from top to bottom and then there’s a bloom of sensation and the crack of his palm striking the generous globe of Taron’s bum and he moans into it, wrecked. None of his teenaged fumbling around with the boys from RADA was ever like this. 

Richard clearly got some other things sorted out while he was over with the music, because Taron now hears a cap being flipped as well and then there’s the slender tip of a moist finger sinking gently into him, penetrating him and it’s shocking and bizarre at first — he clenches around it and Richard soothes him, gentling a hand down his hip — _shhhhh, relax, I’ve got you_ — sliding out just a smidgeon and then back in, deeper, gliding on the slippery lube, as he opens to it, and again he has the outrageous thought — _Richard Madden_ _has his finger up my arse — _which results in a wave of molten desire rolling down his belly to his bollocks, and it ripples through him and the finger sinks deeper; he is moaning with it and then Richard is finger-fucking him, in, out, filled, wanting, over and over until Taron is gasping for more, for harder, for faster, for _something_ — and Richard sinks a second finger in next to the first — _yes, that’s it, feels soooo good, Richard, fuck_ — and Richard’s hand falls down again, spanking first one cheek and then the other and he crooks his fingers and Taron sees stars.

Taron’s babbling after a while, litanies of _ want you _ and _ fuck _ and _ yeah, there, oh God… _ and finally, _ fuck me, fuck me, want your cock, Jesus _ — and Richard gets up on his knees behind him and then Taron sees the empty package of a condom land near his head — he looks over his shoulder just in time to watch Richard — flushed, Adonis of a man, his muscular chest covered in a fine sheen of sweat, his long cock proud and stiff in his hand as he rolls the condom down its length and lowers it to guide it into Taron’s waiting, ready hole. _ God_, it’s the hottest thing Taron has ever seen, and his own cock pulses onto the bed beneath him.

“Jesus, Taron. You’re so fucking _ beautiful_, y’don’t even _ know_,” moans Richard and his voice, the praise, that _ accent_, what’s about to happen — all of it just flows into a shivery undulation that starts at Taron’s toes — and then Richard has one hand on the small of his back and the tip of his cock breaches Taron, at last. Taron feels himself open ever-so-slowly, welcome Richard in — it’s so much bigger than those fingers and the stretch feels like it could be too much at any moment, but Richard is so gentle, so slow — Taron feels overwhelmed, emotion welling in his chest, as Richard leans down, kisses Taron’s shoulder, sinks in just that little bit deeper — _ how’re ye doing, lad? Okay? _ — and he is, he is, possibly the most okay he’s ever been, feels like he’s where he’s meant to be, like everything in his life has led to this moment, to losing his virginity to Richard _ fucking Madden _in Richard Madden’s fucking bedroom at 3pm on a lazy Sunday afternoon in February.

Richard moans deep and long when he finally bottoms out, his thighs flush against Taron’s arse, his balls touching Taron’s, soft sensitive skin swinging together. Taron vaguely recalls Richard is waiting for an answer, gasps out _ yeah, m’good, you can move, please, god, Richard _ and then that turns into a long, drawn out groan as Richard pulls back, dragging over Taron’s prostate. Taron collapses, his hands falling out beneath him, his chest now flat on the bed and somehow his lower half follows and he grinds his cock against the mattress and Jesus fuck that’s another thing altogether — Richard folds himself over Taron’s back, follows him down, hips pistoning in, out without stopping, relentless, gorgeous, not so slow now and not fast either, just measured sweet torture, in, out, and Taron realises that the voice saying _ feels so good, feels so good _ is his own. Every so often, Richard spanks him and he clenches on the rigid length buried inside him and _ fuck _if that isn’t everything he’d ever hoped it would be, everything he fantasised about as a horny teenager.

After a while he realises why doggy style is so popular, that it was deeper, and that in this position, the sensitive spot inside him is missing out. He scrabbles back to his knees, Richard shifting up to make room for him, pulling him up as Taron starts to push back, fucking himself onto Richard’s cock, and Jesus it’s incredible, he can feel it building, if he could maybe get a hand on himself, he —

Then Richard’s voice cuts across his thoughts, moaning _ God, I’m close, gonna — Taron, fuck! _ And then his moans, pitched lower, gravelly _ ah, ah, ahhhh _ and Richard stills, shudders into him, saying _ sorry _ and _ gimme a moment _ and Taron is vibrating like a high note, held clear and open, tremolo, fermata, feels his body echo like an offering in a vast space, _ gaudete, gaudete _ — 

Richard is kissing his shoulder blade, soft, open-mouthed, and Taron pulls himself back from the edge, gasps as Richard pulls out, just starting to soften but still hard, turns just as Richard knots the rubber and overhands it towards a dustbin and brings the hand back down Taron’s bare hip, slots his leg between Taron’s legs and presses down against his stiff knob.

“I’ve got a secret,” confides Richard, hoarse into Taron’s ear, licks the shell of it. 

“Yeah?” Taron whispers back, breath ragged, heart pounding.

“I’m what they call ‘versatile’, and I love nothing more than being fucked just after I’ve come, love how oversensitive it feels.”

Taron can feel his eyes widen at the lust coursing through him, his hands tightening unbidden on Richard’s pecs and all he can say again is, “Yeah?” Butterflies in his stomach, thigh muscles quivering, mouth dry.

“Would you like to fuck me, Taron?”

_ Would he… would he like… _ Taron’s brain shorts out even as he’s nodding, even as his hands are moving to cup Richard’s jaw and draw him across to claim his lips again, even as he’s thrusting his groin up against Richard’s thigh, letting him feel just how much he would _ definitely _ like.

Richard pulls back a little, cheeky grin tugging at his lips, reaches for another condom, tears the packet with his teeth, fuck, the other hand supporting his weight still. He tugs the condom out and sucks the tip of it into his mouth, waggles his eyebrows and then bends over Taron, as if to kiss his cock, and in one clearly practiced movement, swallows Taron down, unrolling the condom with his lips as he goes, opens his mouth a little wider and slurps back up and pops off with a smug look as he inspects his work, Taron’s cock sheathed in spit-slick rubber.

“Okay,” says Taron, when he can talk again. “That was impressive.” 

In the meantime, Richard has coated his fingers with lube, has reached behind himself, is already sinking down onto his own hand and then liberally smearing the clear, viscous liquid down Taron’s shaft. Taron is mesmerised, dick twitching, runs fluttery fingers down Richard’s chest and belly, back up to his nipples and Richard moans as he does that, so he angles his fingertips and scratches, revelling in this modicum of power when Richard arches up into it. 

Then Richard is shuffling forward a little on his knees, lifting himself up, the hand that was in him fumbling for the base of Taron’s cock, to hold him steady as he lowers himself _ ohhhhh god _ onto Taron _ so tight _ the rings of his muscles gripping _ bloody hell _ the languid roll of his hips _ ahhhhhh fuck _ the slide and the warm embrace again _ deep inside god Richard Richard Richard _ and Richard is clawing at him, holds onto him and slithers sideways somehow, pulling Taron over with him so that Richard is beneath him now, languorous, blissed-out, stroking Taron’s hair, and the nape of his neck and the long line from there to the wingtip of his scapula, and Taron pulls back and thrusts in deep again and Richard sighs, _ yeah, Taron, right there, right there, oh, fuck yes _ as he fucks into him and into him and into him, climbing higher and higher and higher until his hips are stuttering and Richard is clenching around him rhythmically, and Taron’s practically just breathing into Richard’s mouth, eyes wide, astonished, as he says, _ Oh god, I’m… _ and then open mouthed as he comes, pulse after pulse, and his vision whites out and he comes to with Richard soothing him, saying _ that’s it, yeah, so fucking beautiful_. 

They both doze off for a while, then — limbs tangled, bodies sweaty and warm. 

When Taron wakes, it’s because Richard is gently extracting himself from under him. He makes an enquiring noise, tries to hold him back but Richard is firmly pushing Taron’s hand back, says, “Shower. Vital to my continued happiness right now,” in a determined tone and Taron slips back under. 

He wakes a second time to find Richard already dressed, towelling his hair. 

“Time is it?” he asks, fuzzy. 

“Near 6,” says Richard. “I’m sorry to have to kick you out, but I’ve got plans.”

“Oh,” says Taron, suddenly awake. He sits up, runs fingers through his short hair. His body feels incredible, like he’s had the best workout in his life. His bum is ever-so-slightly sore but he’s surprised that his arse just feels odd, the phantom sensation of a cock in it lingering and he flushes at the realisation and the memories it brings. 

“There’s a towel and a washcloth for you on the rail. The navy ones,” says Richard, all business. 

“Uh, yeah. Course.” Taron gets out of the bed, goes over to where Richard is standing, goes to hold him, but Richard laughs, a little brittle, says, “Mate, you’re covered in dried jizz, go shower!” and flicks him with the towel. 

Taron laughs with him, but says, soft, serious, “That was fucking incredible, honest. Thank you.”

Richard’s expression softens and he runs a hand through his damp hair, says, “Yeah, it was amazing for me too. We owe Luke champagne or something.”

“Or something,” agrees Taron. He nods towards the shower, gets an affirmative and heads out of the room, one last glance over his shoulder at Richard, putting product in his hair at the mirror. 

He showers quickly, perfunctory. Doesn’t wash his hair. Uses Richard’s fancy body wash that smells like verveine and musk, rubbing himself down briskly with the navy wash cloth. He steps out and wraps himself in the matching huge, fluffy towel, dries off and heads back to the bedroom, which is now empty. 

He dresses, retrieving his clothes from their various spots where they fell. He’s wishing they hadn’t fallen asleep, was looking forward to a lazy afterglow. Maybe next time? 

He finds Richard in the lounge room, packing a slim laptop into a messenger bag. “Hey, gorgeous,” Taron says. 

Richard looks up and smiles at him. “Hey, yourself. I’ve called two cars for us. Hope that’s not presumptuous.” He turns to grab keys from a bowl on a shelf.

Taron leans against the wall. “Nah, that’s great. Thanks. So…” he says. Richard turns back to face him again, distracted, and Taron continues. “I’d like to see you again…”

It’s as if Richard’s shaken out of a spell by that. He puts the laptop bag down and steps into Taron’s space, hand on his jaw. “I’d like that too,” he says. “But, Taron… you have to know that this — _ us _ — can’t ever be more than casual.”

Taron’s heart sinks — he knew that, deep down, but he keeps forgetting, keeps having traitorous thoughts about romance and love and being swept off his feet. He feels like an idiot.

“Course,” he says, matching his tone to the word, ever-so-casual. 

“I’m not ready to be Zachary and Jonathan parading down a red carpet hand-in-hand,” Richard continues — and Taron can hear anxiety laced through it, and mourning, and a touch of pleading. “I’ve got too many friends in this space and the offers dry up if you even play gay once too often. It’s not like fashion or magazines or interior fucking decorating… I’m sorry if I misled you…”

“No, no, I knew what I was getting into,” Taron reassures him. “I guess I just thought…” He pauses, regroups. “I guess I just thought we had a connection.”

“I think we do, Taron. We’ll catch up when we’re both in the same city, yeah? I wasn’t kidding about that being amazing — I was trying to make your first time something pretty special but you — you _ kindled _ something in me — and I’m _ definitely _up for a rematch.”

Taron lifts his eyes to meet Richard’s oh-so-blue gaze, doesn’t quite remember when he looked away. He searches Richard’s face, and sees honesty, and dares to hope. “I’d really like that,” he ventures, finally. 

Richard closes the small space between them, lips parted, and Taron’s lips fall open too as they connect. They kiss, gently, softly. A promise. 

Then Richard draws back. “But I’m sorry,” he says. “I really do have to go… and like I said, I start filming on Monday. I’ll be in touch?”

“Yeah, yeah, course,” says Taron. “I’m off to Germany soon — mad ski-jumping biopic. Don’t ask.” He laughs as Richard cocks an eyebrow at him, and they’re just so easy together, Taron never wants this to end. But Richard’s all packed now and is moving towards the door, so Taron pats his hand down his jacket checking for wallet and keys, squares his shoulders and exits before Richard into the street.

They part ways, one into each cab, and drive in different directions, one towards Chelsea, the other towards Canary Wharf. 

* * *

They get caught up in filming and press tours and other lives. And after a while, Taron thinks he imagined that last look from Richard — a moment of longing over his shoulder as the distance between them grew — half-convinces himself that he was only ever just a booty call, convenient. He can’t bring himself to call when he’s sober and he’s terrified of making a fool of himself one day when he’s not.

He plays that Arctic Monkeys album over and over and over during the summer of 2015, that first track fucking taunting him with could-have-beens, the fucking irony of it all.

_ I've dreamt about you nearly every night this week  
How many secrets can you keep?  
'Cause there's this tune I found  
That makes me think of you somehow,  
an' I play it on repeat —  
Until I fall asleep…_


	2. 2018

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! Thanks to the folks at the MCG for putting on a screening of Rocketman tonight for Valentine's Day — that was a lovely way to remind myself to love me again.
> 
> Thanks to C for doing a beta read under difficult circumstances. As always, any errors or oddnesses that remain are my own.
> 
> If, as you read, you think, "wait, that's not how that line goes in the film!" you're probably right. It is, however, how it goes [in the script](http://www.paramountguilds.com/rocketman/screenplay/Rocketman.pdf). I'm taking liberties with imagining how some of those lines might have been delivered.

“And Taron,” Dexter is saying with a flourish, “this hot number is my pick for your sexy love interest, Richard Madden!”

Richard is holding out his hand to shake and Taron takes it, shakes it, says, “Pleasure, mate. Uh. People have been telling me for years we should meet —”

And Richard nods, takes his hand back, says, “Yeah, same.”

“You… uh… gonna stick around and listen?”

“Wouldn’t miss it, mate! Dexter played me your demo… amazing.”

“You liked the songs then?” Taron asks, cheeky, but Richard clearly isn’t as familiar with the script as he is, yet — not sure he’s even signed anything — and he doesn’t get it. 

“Loved them. Loved them,” Richard gushes, and Taron can’t help but wonder if he also stayed up all night worrying about this encounter, how it would go, how it would feel, three years down the track, wonders — god, he’s a tragic bastard — _ if this feeling flows both ways_.

But Giles is looking curiously at him, so he shrugs and says, “Better get back to it,” with a wry smile. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

Richard smiles — that genuine, all-the-way-up-to-his-aquamarine-eyes smile, and it takes Taron’s breath away for a moment, how absolutely beautiful this man is, how three years have only improved him — squared his jaw, widened his already-gorgeous grey streak, added little crinkles in the corners of his eyes. 

He forces himself to look away, to move back into the booth. He puts his headphones back on and gives Giles a thumbs up, starts rocking out as the bassline for _ Bennie _ comes in and then, he’s entirely in his own head as he belts out the song. When he finishes that take, he can see that Dexter was filming him and he can see Richard next to him, and he has to drag his gaze back to Giles and tune in to what the man is saying to him, checks back when Giles wants him to come in, and when he looks back to where Richard was, he’s gone.

“Alright, Taron?” asks Dexter.

“Yeah, all good,” Taron replies, shaking himself out of it. “Shall we go again?”

“Just one more, sorry,” says Giles. “This time, let’s try it without the second verse.”

Later that night, after Dexter has told him Richard’s _ definitely _ being offered the part, that the contracts have been sent to his agent, Taron tries to phone Richard to talk about it, to make sure it isn’t going to be weird, but he keeps getting the “switched off or out of range” message and he wonders if Richard has changed his number. It seems like an odd thing to do, switch off your phone when you’re expecting a contract… or maybe, Taron thinks, his stomach sinking, palpitations in his chest, just maybe Richard is very specifically avoiding a phone call from _ him_.

It’s a gut-punch, that thought, an ache in his centre. He flings the phone onto the couch next to him and drops his head into his hands. He can’t. He just… How can he make this movie, how can he do this justice, if Richard and he can’t… it doesn’t bear thinking about. 

He shakes his head clear and forces himself to recall Richard’s nonchalance this afternoon, and decides he’s overthinking it. Richard is clearly determined to just act like they’re fine. Taron’s with Emily now anyway — well, she’s in Italy right now filming on _ Solo: A Star Wars Story_, which is awkward as hell since he turned down the lead to play Elton. Well. Pulled out of the audition process. Either way, things are… awkward.

He’s not entirely sure what he expected he’d say if Richard had answered his phone. He runs his hand through his hair again, gets up and pours himself a beer. He thinks about calling Emily, but it’s pushing 11pm and she’s probably got an early call, so he doesn’t.

He sits back on the couch and turns on the telly, flicks through too many police procedurals and re-runs of Miss Marple. Drinks his beer. Kicks himself for brooding again.

They’re professional actors. If Richard doesn’t want to have a deep, personal conversation about their past, well, Taron will just have to finally get over the man and do his job. He turns the telly off and drags his sorry carcass to bed.

It still takes him more than an hour to fall asleep.

* * *

Taron gets to the table read exactly on time — it’s a habit he’s unwilling to break, it’s just _ polite _ — and finds himself a chair between Bryce and Jamie. That’s a relief — he won’t need to worry about saying the wrong thing or any awkwardness between them.

Next thing he knows, Bryce has got up and is over talking with Gemma, who pats the seat next to her and Bryce is moving her things across. Of course, that’s when Richard comes in, all confidence and charm, says in his smooth brogue, “Anyone sitting here then?” and Taron has to say, “No, all yours,” because what’s he supposed to say, honestly? ‘_I know we’re going to fake-fuck at some point in the next few weeks, but I’m worried you sitting next to me is more than I can handle right now’_? It’s entirely ridiculous.

Richard has pulled out the chair and sat back down — he’s wearing a soft blue henley that brings out his eyes, and a pair of blue jeans that just hug his thighs and _ fuck _ Taron is staring. He rivets his eyes on the script in front of him, and only looks up again when Dexter booms from across the room, “Okay, people! Let’s make a movie!”

Taron turns to Jamie and he smiles encouragingly. He opens his script to the first page and waits as everyone else does the same. Dexter reads out, “Interior. Corridor, Hospital. Day. ELTON JOHN in a sequined and feathered catsuit storms along…” and they lose themselves in the rhythm of the screenplay.

Throughout all of it, Richard’s thigh is just millimetres from Taron’s own and he is resolutely not closing that distance. He can feel the heat of him, tightens his fingers across the top of his slacks to keep himself still. Breathes in again. 

It’s not till page 55 that Richard appears… and by then the tension is almost unbearable. Richard delivers his line from _ Streetcar Named Desire _ about the kindness of strangers, and Taron wants to cringe a little for Elton’s naïveté and how much he was set up from the start by this suave charmer of a man, wonders whether he’s just as much of a fool where Richard is concerned and wants to kick himself. 

“So, you like the songs, then?” he says, and he can see the moment Richard clocks that phrase and where he’s heard it before.

“Not quite as much as the singer…” he says, and stares at Taron, as Dexter reads the stage direction.

“Reid stares at Elton. Elton stares back, amazed at this ultra-confident creature.” It’s not acting when Taron’s eyes flick down to Richard’s lips, but he hopes everyone else in the room thinks it is.

* * *

The first day’s shooting is backstage at the _ Troubadour_, Taron and Jamie and Charlie in quite a small space, and they’re straight into it — white dungarees that are a bit bloody tight on his bum, if you ask Taron, a navy number with stars on it, and big glasses with white plastic frames. He checks himself out in the on-set mirror and thinks he looks absolutely ridiculous. There’s a full crew around them, Richard and Tate, and other actors who aren’t in this first scene, extras.

What on _ earth _ was he thinking, that he can play Elton John? What kind of utter arrogance leads a man to imagine he can take on the role of one of England’s superstars? The only thing more ridiculous than this would be trying to be Bowie. He sits in those emotions, wallows in them, lets them build, covers them with bravado and then gives Dexter a nod.

“And — action!” says Dexter.

“Bloody hell, what are you wearing?”

“My stage gear,” says Taron, letting that thin layer of confidence float to the top, brittle.

Jamie rushes in from stage left, beers in hand, bottled lightning. “Reg! Neil Diamond’s at the bar talking to Leon Russell and half the fucking Beach Boys!” 

Taron lets all of it bubble up as Jamie takes a swig of the ‘beer’. “Jesus shit, Bernie!” Taron yells, and stomps his foot for good measure but Jamie’s spraying his mouthful all over the floor, and Dexter’s yelling “Cut!”. When Taron looks over, Jamie is choking and laughing all at once.

“What’s going on, Jamie boy?” asks Dexter, and then there’s a snigger off to the side and everyone swivels as one to look at Richard Madden, who’s waiting to shoot this afternoon’s scene on the same set.

“I was expecting ginger beer,” says Jamie, trying to get a breath.

Taron takes the bottle and smells it. It’s fizzy, but there’s a distinct odour of sweetened pickle juice coming from it. He laughs, can’t help himself. 

“Reset!” yells Dexter, and waggles a finger at Richard. “As for you… well played, son. But I’m declaring open season on you for that. Watch out.”

Richard mock-salutes him and winks at Taron. Okay, then. Perhaps this isn’t going to be as bad as he’d thought.

They fall into an easy friendship — at least during the day. On any given morning, they can be found plotting in a corner as Richard dares Taron to greater indignities visited on the other cast members.

At night, alone in his trailer, he’s a melancholy sod; the whole _ AM _ album now has double layers of meaning in every goddamn line. He finds himself singing, _ “Are you mine?” _ and he flicks his phone on, flicks it off again, laughs at the absurdity of phoning Richard when he’s had a few, after all these years of making sure that he never, ever phoned him when he was high.

A few weeks later, they’re at the point, finally, where they’re going to shoot Elton and Reid’s first kiss. The set looks utterly incredible — rambling Laurel Canyon homestead wrapped in a massive wooden porch, teepees and soft yellow lanterns, extras wearing so many fringes and flares and smoking hookahs, the Amersham woodlands perfect. He’s absolutely in love with the denim jacket Julian’s got him in — and Lizzie’s done an incredible, _ incredible _ job on his hair and this clever thing they’ve come up with together for the ‘gap’ in his teeth. It’s a cool night even though it’s only halfway to September but they’ve got fires burning. Taron’s taking a moment to himself — they’ve just shot the _ Tiny Dancer _ scene and he’s still sitting in that mood a little, closeted, out of place — lusting after people he can’t have. Really, did this film have to parallel his own life so closely? 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Richard arrive. God, he’s the living personification of the script description — a strange, dangerous and exciting creature, in his sharp suit that stands out like a sore thumb amongst all the hippies — forget Elton, _ Taron _ is mesmerised by him.

Eventually, Richard spots Taron sitting on the log next to the fire and comes over.

“Hey, hey, hey!” says Taron when he gets close enough.

“You look gorgeous, mate!” Richard says, and then they’re hugging — a big, genuine hug, like they’ve known each other for years.

“I can’t wait to kiss you again,” whispers Taron, in the middle of the hug, before he can even think what he’s saying, and Richard stiffens slightly under his touch; Taron can’t tell if that’s arousal or if he’s just completely fucked everything up. 

He draws back and covers it with a cough and Richard thumps him on the back. “All right, mate?”

“Yeah, fine, sorry. You sorted then? Know your lines?” Taron teases.

“Fark off,” laughs Richard. “Yes, I do.”

“You sure?” continues Taron. “Because I’ve got it easy here, hardly a peep from me. This one’s all on you.”

“Oh, shut it, T.” Richard thwacks him joshingly on the arm. “You just want me to stumble so you get to listen to me singing your praises over and over and you can get lost in my eyes.”

That’s so close to the truth, it makes Taron’s breath catch.

And then Dexter is there, checking in, and Lizzie’s sent someone over to touch Taron up, and then Taron is sitting alone on the log again, cameras rolling, Richard coming up behind him. He hears the bottle clink against the cups, and Richard sits down next to him, and they say their lines — some of the most poetic material in the whole damn script, exactly the romance Taron’s been craving.

They run through it once, Richard’s purr flowing over Taron, gazing into his eyes, and Richard says his final line — “and it’s going to be a wild ride…” and he leans in, just like it says in the script, and kisses Elton — Taron — and Taron’s frankly surprised, had almost forgotten this was coming but he melts into it like he’s supposed to, liquid under Reid’s magnetic attention. He pulls away slightly and whispers, “Fireworks?” then he hears, “Cut!” and they draw back. 

As they do, Taron hears Richard whisper, “You all right?” and he squeezes a hand on his knee, and Taron nods, a little speechless, and so grateful. It’s the first acknowledgement at all of anything between them. He was half expecting some arrogant, tone-deaf quip, like, “Worth the wait?” that would have broken his heart entirely in two, but instead he’s been thrown a lifeline — that, if nothing else, Richard cares about him, and this can be a genuine friendship.

Dexter’s squatting next to them, his usual cheery self, even when he’s got notes. “Right then,” he says. “Loved that. Great start. You’re both spot on with the ‘kindness of strangers’ and the ‘like the songs’ — what we need, though, all right? Is a bit more tension as we get to the end of it. Ratchet that shit up a bit. Taron, this man’s fucking electric. He’s all up in your space. He’s making you tight in the pants area, know what I mean? But you’re terrified too. Is he going to kiss you? Out here, where anyone can see? That’s bloody exciting, innit? All right? Also, drop that ‘Fireworks’ line — it’s not working.” Dexter slaps Taron on the knee a few times, uses his thigh to lever himself back up, and yells out, “Reset!”

Richard picks up the bottle and the glasses and raises one to Taron in a mock toast, and heads back to his mark. Taron sits back again and faces the fire, waits as someone adjusts his hair, touches up his lips, and his cheeks.

“And action!” yells Dexter. They go again. Taron looks over his shoulder and up as Richard approaches. This time, when Richard is sitting next to him, there’s a smile playing on his lips. And as they say their initial lines, Taron feels a nervous smile playing on his too. He flicks his gaze to the red tin mug and back to Richard, a sudden image of Richard sucking him down so vivid in his memory. And as he says, “So you liked the songs, then?” he can’t help but look down at Richard’s lips — is it too early to do that? Doesn’t matter, they can do more takes. Just let it build, Dexter said.

Richard delivers half the bit looking away but turns the full intensity of his spark towards Taron as he says, “ascends into the heavens,” and Taron smiles, all nerves and arousal, looks at Richard’s lips again, anticipating softness and recalling passion. He _ wants _ … god, _ Richard_.

“You lit the blue touch paper,” Richard says, passionate, looking away, “and now we can all see you shooting light and colour and magic into the night sky.” He turns his face towards Taron again, serious, intent.

“Where there was darkness, there is now — you.” They lock eyes. Taron’s breath hitches. He looks at Richard’s lips again. ‘Build the tension.’_ Jesus fuck. _ He raises his eyebrows at Richard. Dares him. _ Go on, sexy creature. Kiss me already. _ “You can do anything you want. You can be anyone you want.” They’re infinitesimally closer now. He’s not even sure how that happened. He’s just swaying towards the man. “And it’s going to be a wild ride,” says Richard, finally. Taron just stares at him for a few more beats, breathing heavily. And then Richard closes the distance between them and their lips meet, and it’s fierce and hot and Taron’s hand goes up between them to push slightly against Richard’s chest just as Richard’s hand curls around the back of Taron’s neck to pull him in.

“And cut!” comes Dexter’s voice. They pull apart, Taron standing so rapidly he almost knocks back into the log. “That was terrific, gents. Same again for us, yeah? Richard, the line is ‘there is now — you — Elton John’. You forgot his name.” Richard nods in acknowledgement. Dexter continues, “We’re going in tighter on you, Taron, for the reaction shots. Reset!” and he’s wandering off to chat to the focus puller.

It’s only two more takes and then Taron’s done for the night, thanks Richard for a job well done and excuses himself to the loos. He hangs back until he’s certain Richard would have left before he emerges, grabs his bags and heads back to his trailer, firmly instructing his traitorous heart not to get any stupid ideas.

* * *

It’s almost 4am when his phone buzzes. He’s been in bed only half an hour and tomorrow’s a late start thanks to the night shoots. He half-thinks about ignoring it, pretending he was asleep if anyone asks. He knows exactly who it’s going to be before he even looks.

_ I’d forgotten, _ says the text. _ How dangerous you are. _

He texts back, ** _What’re you talking about?_ ** Plausible deniability.

_ I want you. _

_ I still want you _

_ I’ve never stopped wanting you. _

The three texts drop into his phone one after the other, impossible.

** _This is such a bad idea_**_, _ he types back, kicking himself for it, at the same time as another text arrives.

_ I’m scared that if I let myself have this, it’ll consume me. You’ll consume me. _

And another, Richard clearly just typing it all out as fast as he can, getting it all out there, finally after such silence.

_ I said casual but — I could never have been casual with you. _

Taron forces himself to click send, and then to keep typing. ** _I’ve got a girlfriend now._ ** And he sends that too.

The dots rise and fall now, then disappear for a minute, two minutes, rise again, in the dark, quiet of the morning. Taron holds his phone, staring at the square of light in his hand.

Finally, a text appears.

_ Do you now? And does she know? _

** _About you specifically? No_**_, _he writes. 

_ Sorry_, writes Richard. _ This was a stupid idea. _

**_No_**, writes Taron. **_I’m glad you told me._** It’s okay that you want me, he thinks, but doesn’t say. I want you too. 

Another long pause. Richard writes, _ So what do you want to do? _

** _I don’t know. I don’t know_**, replies Taron. ** _What do you want to do?_ **

This time the pause is so long, he goes to put the phone away. And when the text comes, he can barely believe what he’s reading.

_ Edge you in front of a fucking camera crew and then blow you in your trailer afterwards, _it says.

_ But knowing me, _ says the text immediately after that, _ I’m going to behave myself and regret it for the next three years. _

It’s not cheating if you’re just wanking while imagining your hot co-star fucking you senseless, right? Taron tells himself that over and over, hand blurred over his dripping cock under the covers as he pants and arches up, the knuckles of his other hand stuffed into his mouth so no one hears him.

* * *

It sometimes feels like every other day is a scene where they have to kiss each other. After the dance routine on the giant record; on the massive pink _ Honky Cat _ set. The worst of it is that they really do click together like they were meant to be, finishing each other’s sentences, same sense of humour, the whole shebang.

Taron cracks up to Richard talking about how much he likes the kimonos, his Scottish accent making the middle syllable ‘moan’, sets him up to ask Dex if he can steal one just so Dex can crack up at the accent too — and for the rest of the afternoon, everyone is saying ‘k’mOHno’ in a broad brogue, and they’re breaking each other every take.

As always with film, it’s shot out of order, scheduling the time so that Bryce and Tom and others film in blocks and don’t have to come back too often. That means the sex scene is shot towards the end, since it only needs the pair of them. 

It’s a closed set, of course, made to look like a 1970s hotel room, all wood panels and flocked wallpaper. The light streams in through the window and Richard and Taron start in T-shirts and jeans. They’ve already kissed so much on set, it’s just acting now, even if it is still soft and gorgeous, even if there is still a moment when Richard cups Taron’s neck that Taron just wants it to be real. He fists his hand in Richard’s shirt and Richard reaches behind him to grab his arse, pull him closer by the belt loops. He pulls Richard’s shirt over his head, kissing him fiercely again the second it’s off. They reset and Dexter tells Richard to leave his shirt off, see how that works. They do it again, and again, until Taron’s lips are starting to chap and he’s getting beard burn. He pauses and asks for chapstick, while Dexter looks at what they’ve shot and decides it’s enough of that particular angle for now.

They move to the bed, and they shoot glasses removal, shirt removal, more kissing, and then the pair of them, side by side on the bed, removing shoes and jeans, undoing belt buckles, so many different angles, and Taron’s looking over at Richard’s bare chest, can’t help comparing to what it was three years ago, thicker fur and a few greys, can’t help but be a little embarrassed for himself, how thick he is, how much thicker than Richard, the soft swell of his plump belly, his undefined chest and large nipples under the heat of the light, knows it’s for the part but also it’s him, really, isn’t it, the soft doughy reality of him when he’s not training, because he likes his pasta and his cream sauces, because he eats anything and it goes straight to his thighs and his bum. But Richard sees him looking, reads it instantly and the next time they break, he takes him aside and whispers urgently, “I saw that look. Don’t you _ dare _… you’re so hot, Taron, you’ve still no idea do you?” And Taron shakes his head, but Richard says, “Don’t buy into that crap. It’s all artificial. You know that. No one looks like that for more than a week. Okay?”

And Taron nods, grateful, squares his shoulders, eats the salad he’s picked up from craft services, and just for good measure, steals a chip from Richard’s plate.

Then they’re stripping down for the nude shots, and he walks back onto the set wearing a cock sock and a dressing gown, and Richard smiles at him as he coyly drops his gown off one shoulder and winks at Taron.

Taron’s a bit tense at first — hasn’t done anything like this in front of a camera before. Richard starts to tickle him at one point and he squeals, twists away —

“Cut!” yells Dexter, and “What in buggery is going on?”

“Not that, yet,” laughs Richard, “Just trying to loosen him up!”

“Well, that shouldn’t take too long, you’re not _ that _ big, Little Dick,” quips Taron. There’s a slightly shocked silence before Dexter bursts out laughing, and Richard feigns deep offence, says, “I’ll show you…” and Dex says, “Don’t get your modesty pouch in a twist!”and they’re all cracking up again.

“Make up!” calls Dex. “These idiots have tears running down their faces. Get them sorted out.”

When they’re shooting again, Richard deepens the kisses and threads his thigh between Taron’s legs, sucks his neck and Taron gasps out loud. Richard smiles into that and when they go to flip over, Taron pays him back by biting his pec, pulling the skin a little with his teeth, and it’s Richard’s turn to take a sharp breath.

When they cut this time, Dexter gives a low whistle. “I don’t know what the fuck you two are doing to each other, but I’m keeping those noises and giving them to Giles to thread into the sound mix. Fucking magic. OK, then. Richard, legs in the air, lie back and think of Scotland, matey. Everybody ready for this one? Remember boys — you’re making love, not fucking. I want it slow and beautiful.”

Taron settles himself between Richard’s legs. “Not too heavy?” he asks. 

“Perfect,” says Richard, smiling. He lifts his legs higher, where they’d need to be.

“And action!” says Dexter. Taron leans down to kiss Richard, gently undulates his hips. Richard kisses the shell of Taron’s ear and whispers, “Is it really acting if you’re just remembering fucking me as a 23-year-old virgin?” And Taron turns to him, eyes flaring and digs his nails into Richard’s side.

Dexter calls cut and they pull apart while Dex checks the monitor. “Sorry, lads, we can see the socks. Are you okay to lose them?”

“Fine by me,” says Richard, looking at Taron, who shrugs.

“Doesn’t bother me, either,” he says.

“Okay, then,” says Dex. “Essential crew only, everyone else, you’re on break till you hear otherwise. And then let’s go again.”

With Richard’s cock pressed up against Taron’s thigh, Taron’s having trouble concentrating. It doesn’t help at all when Richard says, before they begin, “That offer from earlier still stands, if you’re interested…” and then they’re filming again, Richard’s legs high around Taron’s waist, Taron’s bare bum and broad back exposed to the lights, his bare front warm along the entire length of the man he’s been in love with for years, every cell in him crying out for this to be real.

* * *

Back in his trailer, he fumbles his phone out of his pocket, panting. Sends Emily a shitty text; she deserves so much more. ** _We need to talk_**_, _ it says. ** _I’m so sorry_**_. _

Whatever might or might not happen with Richard, he can’t keep going the way he has been. 

His phone buzzes as he flings it away from him but he can’t bear to look at what she’s written back; he’s slightly surprised she’s in the right timezone to be responding so quickly at all. It buzzes again and then there’s a knock on the trailer door and he startles, turns around from where he was halfway to the kitchenette, opens the door to find Richard on his doorstep.

Richard holds up the bottle of wine he’s brought, says, “Look, it’s not Dom Perignon, but it’s no’ a bad vintage…”

And Taron grins at him and gestures him in, goes off to find glasses. Richard pours them a generous amount each, holds his glass up and clinks it against Taron’s when he does the same.

“You were amazing today, T,” Richard begins, settling onto the small bench seat near the table.

“Yeah?” says Taron. He’s searching Richard’s face for a clue. Richard looks away. Taron perches on the other end of the bench, takes a sip of his wine.

“Sorry if I made ye uncomfortable at’all,” says Richard, looking back at Taron as he trails off. “That wasn’t my intention in the slightest.”

“I know,” says Taron. “You didn’t. Did _ I_? Make you uncomfortable?”

Richard takes a large gulp from his glass. “Well, you’ve made it very difficult for me to stop thinking about you tonight, I’ll tell you that for free.” It’s a quick movement, but Taron catches it, Richard passing a hand over his crotch, adjusting himself, and it makes Taron’s cock plump up just thinking about it.

_ Fuck it_. Taron leans forward, catches Richard’s lips softly, tentative, and like it has so often today, Richard’s hand automatically snakes around the back of Taron’s neck but the moan he lets out this time is raw and shameless, like it’s been torn from him. Then they’re deepening the kiss, fierce and hungry, hands in hair, scrabbling at their shirts, along a jawline, panting for breath in between devouring each other once more.

Before he can blink, though, Richard has pulled away, stood up.

“Sorry, sorry,” he’s saying. “I don’t know what I was fucking thinking. You said you have a girlfriend. Fuck.”

“Wait, Richard…” says Taron, but it’s too late. Richard has left and the screen door bangs a few times behind him but doesn’t quite latch.

Taron’s phone buzzes and he grabs it, looks at the screen.

_ I figured_, says Emily’s text. _ Based on how often you weren’t calling. :-( _

And then Richard’s one, _ Are you still up? Care for a drink? _

_ Free now if you want to talk, _ says the next one, from Emily. And so he does, calls her slid down on the floor of his trailer, head in his hands, lips still burning, apologetic, and gentle, because she is one of his best friends, and they both end up crying, but they agree it’s for the best.

* * *

There’s only a week to go until they wrap but the pressure doesn’t ease off at all. On October 24, they’re handed fresh pages — yellow revision, it says at the top, and Taron wonders what would happen if they run out of basic colours — and it’s all heartbreak, anger and pain. Elton’s relationship with Hugh and getting thrown out by Arabella, piano smashing onto the street below.

The scene with Steven — Elton’s dad asking for the autograph — is hard going. It’s easy to cry in the car — for Elton, who’s now his friend, and for his 14-year-old self trying to tell his mum, all those years ago, and ending up in therapy for ‘anxiety’ instead.

A few days after that, Richard’s so convincing getting sucked off by the pool boy, so blasé about it, that Taron doesn’t tell him it’s his real anger at Richard he draws on for that one, being abandoned by him, and for what? Because they would have been _ too good _ together? Because some _ casual fuck _ is better than being vulnerable and having a real relationship? Because of his _ career_? It’s utterly infuriating.

The 29th of October sees fresh pages again — green revision, this time — Elton and Kiki Dee in a studio recording ‘Don’t Go Breaking My Heart’ and Reid swaggering in, sweeping Elton off his feet.

Even with the revisions, the words aren’t quite right. They go through once per the script — it’s a bit stilted. Taron and Richard chat with Dexter about it, that taut flirting, that livewire connection between these two, at this point. They reset, and then they improvise — from Taron just holding up a hand to “Kiki, would you mind giving me five minutes?” 

Richard winks at her as she leaves, says “nice job,” and she replies, “nice suit”. None of that’s in the script either. Rachel is absolutely fantastic with very little script direction — makes it supremely clear with body language and her expression that Kiki knows exactly what Reid is up to, even if Ray is oblivious. She’s so good that there’s a moment Taron panics that she _ actually _ knows what’s up with him and Richard. Mind you, that implies that _ Taron _ knows what’s up with him and Richard, and that’s such utter bollocks. He’s got two more days to work it out and then they won’t see each other until May next year. It’s unthinkable.

Taron plays with the script, turns “I can beg if you like,” into “Don’t make me beg,” and the flash in Richard’s eyes makes it absolutely clear Taron’s landed precisely the phrase he needed to. 

And Charlie’s more relaxed too, with his “Shall we go for a pint?” and Taron’s strained, “Yeah, no, you should go for a pint…” feels so natural. He can do this.

Dexter yells cut, and he’s clapping them all on the back. “That was fantastic!” he says, “Just flipping brilliant, you lot.”

There’s a short break while they reset to film inside the closet and Taron can tell Richard is itching for a smoke. “It’s okay,” he tells him. “Just have a mint, after.” But Richard shakes his head. 

They film Richard on his own in there first, try a range of gestures, a crooked finger, the head jerk, just smouldering like Elton should be able to read Reid’s mind.

Then they film Elton walking into the closet to join Reid. The way Richard kicks the closet door shut makes Taron’s heart beat faster. He knows intellectually that all these little signs of dominance and control from Reid are fucking enormous red flags but it’s still hot, and the fact he knows it’s wrong to find it hot makes it somehow hotter. God, he’s a mess.

This is it though. This is his last chance in the script to convince Richard that Taron is worth it — worth making an effort for, worth changing a life for.

They have to stop and reset the cameras inside the closet, facing the other way. The cameras roll and Richard says his line.

“What do you want, Elton?”

“Nothing,” says Elton, flustered. He’s got everything he wants.

Reid is all up in Elton’s space. Low and seductive, he says, “Wrong answer,” and surges into Taron, kisses him fiercely, claiming him, hand on his neck, thumb on his throat, pushes him back onto the bookshelf and flicks off the light. Taron pushes back against him, slightly taller thanks to the heels, licks into Richard’s mouth without thinking and Richard’s tongue chases his back, moving against each other and then they pull back and he grins, panting, gasps, “Dinner with you?” as Richard says Reid’s lines.

“Cut!” says Dexter and they both look up. “Let’s mix that up a bit, yeah? Just kiss him straight up, and then let’s see how that flows.”

“So pull him into the closet, kiss him and then ask him what he wants?” asks Richard.

“Exactly,” says Dex.

“Dodgy bastard,” says Taron.

“Yup,” says Dexter. “Okay, places! And… action!”

Richard is instantly on him, his back hitting the shelving. He almost loses his balance but Richard’s fist in his collar hauls him back. They’re kissing, frantic, tongues and teeth and Taron’s getting hard, he can feel it. He pours everything he has into this kiss, every moment of longing and lonely, late nights wishing Richard was there. He vaguely hears something and then Richard’s hand hits the shelf beside his head and Richard bites Taron’s lip and then they both hear, “I said, cut!” from a slightly exasperated Dex.

They pull apart, both breathless, eyes blown, staring at each other, until Taron snaps out of it, says, “Sorry, got a bit carried away.”

“I noticed,” says Dex, drily.

Richard wipes his mouth. 

“Can we try that again, a little more restrained, and then get to the line a little quicker?”

“Can do,” says Richard. “Glass of water, first?” And then nods his thanks when his assistant hands him one. He drains it off, hands it back.

They do it again, and again. At one point, Richard’s thumb has been caressing the side of Taron’s mouth for just a tad too long and it’s starting to tickle, so he tries to bite it. Richard just moves that hand down to grip his collar, the unflappable, smooth bastard.

It’s late when they finally declare the scene done, and everyone applauds. “Orright!” says Dexter. “Now we really are all heading down to the pub! Who’s comin’?”

Taron has no idea what he’s doing, but he figures a beer is a good start.

* * *

They take over a good proportion of the garden area of the Black Horse, Charlie and Rachel splitting a bottle of red and everyone else drinking beer and whiskey. They’re all raucous — almost at the finish line, just a few more days before they wrap. They order steaks and chips to soak up the beer, and they mingle, and tell terrible jokes, and generally lean into that feeling of camaraderie coming to a close.

“You two have tomorrow off, don’t you?” asks Dex, at one point, when Taron’s trying to weigh up another drink.

“Not quite,” responds Richard. “Carpool Karaoke, but it’s not till the afternoon. So long as ye’re sober enough to drive by 3pm, T, ye’ll be right.”

“Yeah, all right,” says Taron, and he accepts the shot, downs it, and takes another beer to chase it.

It’s not the smartest decision they’ve ever made, but they get really, truly plastered. 

Midnight finds them off by themselves, far from the others, arms wrapped around each other’s necks, drunken best mates as far as anyone can see. They both know it could be the last time. If nothing else is true, Taron thinks, _ the nights are still mainly made for sayin' things that you can't say tomorrow day_, as the song goes. Time to risk it all.

“Stay with me,” slurs Taron. “I can’t lose you again. _ Be _with me.”

“We can’t…” says Richard, and he sounds almost broken. “You’ve got a girlfriend, you said. I’ve got plans… ”

“We can, we can. Richard. I don't have a girlfriend any more,” Taron puts his hand on Richard’s chest to steady himself. “I told her.”

“I’ve got it all set up, a plane booked leaving in two days. I’ve got a place to land in LA, a screen test with _ Marvel _ for god’s sake.” They’re talking across each other, both intent, intense.

“Richard. Richard. Go to LA. Test for Marvel. But _ come back to me_.”

“What’re ye saying?” says Richard, grasping Taron’s forearms. “Wait, y’ don’t have a girlfriend?”

“Come back to me, Richard. I think I fucking love you. I think you might just be the love of my fucking life. I’m not trying to get in the way of your career but if you don’t… if _ we _ don’t… give it a _ go _…”

All of a sudden, Richard’s lips are on his, and it’s messy as fuck, all teeth, a drunken snog like it’s their last night on earth and god help him, but he feels that way too, so he kisses back like a drowning man drinking in oxygen.

* * *

They stumble into Taron’s apartment — vague memories of farewelling the crew, finding a cab, managing to keep their hands off each other until now, but the moment the door shuts, Taron’s pushed Richard up against the back of it and his lips are on Richard’s, his tongue in Richard’s mouth, his hands on either side of Richard’s face, his leg slotted between Richard’s legs again —

“Promise me…” he gasps, kissing him again.

“Anything,” moans Richard.

“This can’t just be once,” begs Taron, between breaths, “I can’t handle it. Not again.”

Richard’s hand wraps around the back of Taron’s neck and he draws him back, looks at him seriously. “I promise.”

Taron seizes his mouth again, takes Richard’s lower lip between his teeth, grinds out a low growl.

“Wait…” says Richard, and Taron freezes. “I don’t mean stop.” Richard kisses Taron again, gentle, runs hands down his hips. “Just — God, I’m such a coward.”

“It’s okay,” Taron reassures him. “I know. But I can’t hide either.”

“I know,” says Richard, miserable.

“Not after this film.”

“I know.”

“Hey,” says Taron, brushing his thumb under Richard’s eye, wiping away any treacherous evidence, “We can just live our lives. Be who we are, and say ‘no comment’ if anyone asks.”

Richard nods, leans in and kisses Taron again. This time, it’s slow and sensual, languorous. Desire pools in Taron’s belly, a slow warmth that reaches into his core. He presses his hardening length against Richard’s thigh, feels Richard hard against him in return, and they both moan.

“D’ye have a bed, Taron?” asks Richard, “Not sure I can keep my balance much longer.”

Taron leads him through the living space towards the bedrooms, sees Richard glance up at the blue Troubadour sign in the kitchen that he encouraged him to steal, and smiles.

In his room, he hastily clears clean clothes off the bed, settles the wicker basket at the foot of an overflowing bookshelf. He returns to Richard, who’s lying on the bed just watching him, hooded eyes and gentle smile playing on his lips.

Taron reverently tugs Richard’s shirt out from his trousers, but can’t seem to work out the buttons, tugging at the shirt ineffectually until two come off, to Richard’s half-hearted protest and Taron’s embarrassed apology. Taron undoes Richard’s belt and slides it through the loops. Everything seems to take so much longer than it ought to, the way it does when you’re not quite focusing, and you keep interrupting yourself with kissing. The trousers end up round the shoes and he has to pull them half back up again, take the shoes off, and deal with the fact that they’re both giggling before he can get the trousers off properly a second time. He strips his own clothes off, efficiently, tosses them on top of the clean clothes. Whatever. 

He kisses his way back up Richard’s calf, then his thigh, then his belly, his pec, the dip in his clavicle, the side of his jaw and then his mouth again, his sweet, soft mouth; sighs into it like he’s found home. Richard’s petting at his back, his shoulders, humming.

He’s still drunk, but it’s a pleasant buzz, slightly groggy, where everything is marvellous. Richard is amazing. He definitely needs to tell him that, he thinks. “You. You’re _ amazing_,” he says, a bit starstruck. “And you’re in _ my bed_.”

“I am,” says Richard, indulgent and fond.

Taron leans down and kisses Richard full on the mouth again. “I’ve been dreaming about you being in my bed for years. Years and years and years and years.”

“Yeah?” says Richard.

“One hundred percent.” Taron gazes at him for a bit, with a goofy grin on his face and Richard blushes under the attention. Taron’s hand is on Richard’s thigh, thumb just stroking back and forth. Just as Richard’s starting to squirm, Taron blurts out, “Can I suck your cock?” 

The cock in question jerks in Richard’s boxer briefs, and it makes Taron smile even more broadly.

“Ye certainly can, T. Definitely not going to turn down _ that _ offer now, am I?”

Taron enthusiastically pulls down the briefs, exposing the purple head of Richard’s stiff prick, already damp. He leans down and swirls his tongue around it, along the edge of the slightly pulled-back foreskin, collecting the moisture, savouring the sticky salt tang of it. Richard gasps and Taron reaches into Richard’s shorts with his other hand, grasps the base and angles Richard’s cock up to his mouth, licks his lips and opens his jaw wide to sink down on that beautiful shaft, licks at the bundle of nerves under the head as he comes back up and sinks smoothly back down again.

“Jesus, _ Taron, _” cries Richard.

Taron grins around his mouthful and hums as he bobs up and down, until Richard is grabbing at him and pulling him up.

“Fucking hell, T. Who’ve you been practising _ that _ with?”

“Ah, that’d be telling,” says Taron, “And I’m a man of my word.”

“I’m jealous of every single one of them,” declares Richard. “C’mere.”

Taron lays himself along Richard’s full length again, just as they were a few weeks ago, and he can’t help rutting against him while they kiss and kiss.

After an eternity, Richard pulls back for air, says, breathless, “I want to be inside you. Taron, please, can I?” Taron nods and gets lube and a condom from his bedside drawer. He lies back down beside Richard and they slot their legs together and kiss some more, while Richard gets the lube open. Taron raises one leg high over Richard’s hip and Richard reaches back, strokes the silky soft skin of Taron’s balls and Taron tightens his grip on Richard’s back, kisses his neck. Richard strokes one wet finger across Taron’s exposed entrance, and Taron pushes down onto it, rocks slowly forward again, his throbbing cock pressed into the warm space between their bellies, Richard’s cock sliding into the crease of Taron’s hip, and then it’s the most beautiful dance, punctuated with kisses, opening him up, the shimmering sparks of their desire stoked slowly as they ebb and flow into each other.

Finally — intoxicated now by each other more than the alcohol, flying on endorphins and shuddering at the edge, overwhelmed simply by the expanse of each other — Richard cries out, “Oh god, I _ need…” _and Taron says, “Yes, yes…” 

Richard fumbles for the condom, finds it, rolls it onto himself and coats both of them in more lube, says, “_Taron_,” astounded, as he slides into the heat of him and Taron is crying, “I missed you, I missed you, oh, _ god… _” 

They move together like the sea, the roll and retreat of waves, in and out of each other, endlessly. They kiss, intermittently, when they remember to, when they can find the strength to stop staring into each other’s eyes. Richard cups the back of Taron’s neck and Taron rests his hand on the curve of Richard’s jaw.

“Are you mine?” whispers Richard, still moving inside him, soft and slow.

“God, Richard, I thought you’d never ask. I’ve been yours since the day we met. And… _ oh god _…” as Richard’s cock brushes against his core.

“Ask me. I wanna hear you say it,” says Richard, thrusting just a little deeper.

“Are you mine too?”

“Yes, Taron, I’m yours too. I love you,” he says, pulls out so slowly, gasping, sinks all the way back in.

They kiss again, languid, tongues exploring, sensation building. Taron can feel the heat pooling deep inside him, rolls his hips as Richard bottoms out again and they both groan. Together, they climb to the top of the cresting wave, higher, higher, higher, each thrust more intense.

“Oh my _ god — Taron_,” cries Richard as Taron claws at his back, “I can’t… I need…”

“With me,” says Taron, stroking his cock between them. “With me. _ Ohhhh, Richard… _”

And they climax together, ride the wave all the way down, the light and sparkle of it as they surf down its face, effortless, magnificent. They look at each other, after, awed.

And when they’ve cleaned up a bit, and they’re back in bed, snuggled up under Taron’s blue summer duvet, with the light out and listening to each other breathe in the moonlight, Taron says, quietly, “What do you say to a trip after all this is over? After all the premieres, and the press tours?”

“I’d adore that,” says Richard, into the half-light. “I’ve always wanted to go to Italy. I hear Lecce is the hot new spot.”

“Just us, and the sun and the sea,” says Taron, picturing it.

“I’m so sorry,” says Richard. “For all the wasted time. For thinking…”

“_Simmer down and pucker up_,” croons Taron.

“Huh? Taron, what are you —” sputters Richard, as Taron leans in and steals the rest of his sentence with a kiss.

“_I'm sorry to interrupt, _ ” he sings. “_It's just I'm constantly on the cusp… of tryin' to kiss you…” _ He kisses him again. “_I don't know if you feel the same as I do…” _

By now Richard has caught up, and he chimes in on the last line.

“_But we could be together — if you wanted to… _”

“Yes, Taron,” says Richard. “I do, I want that.” Taron smiles through his tears, squeezes Richard’s hand. They sleep.


	3. 2019

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this little epilogue is so short… 
> 
> Thanks to all of you for responding so warmly to this little fic. I've had a truly rubbish week and your comments and kudos have definitely been a bright spot.
> 
> C, I hope I've done the Arctic Monkeys lyrics justice. The last lines here feel cheesy af, but it's the happy ending you asked for. <3

“One thing that’s quite interesting,” says Taron [ when they’re sat in front of the journalist from Entertainment Weekly](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3voM3sduKKw), “is that people have been saying to us for _ years_, ‘you two would get on,’” and Richard’s doing something odd with his index finger, like he’s conducting the performance, and Taron has to school his features not to give the game away. “And we’ve just never met.”

“You didn’t even bump into each other at someone’s party?”

“I was at the Wolseley once, and I saw you over the restaurant…” Taron says to Richard. The secret to a good lie, he’s been told, is to tell as much of the truth as you can, but he’s getting warm just thinking about what actually happened next. “But I didn’t really…” 

“And I saw _ you _ across the restaurant…” interrupts Richard.

“I didn’t have a good reason to… um…” says Taron, and he passes his hand across his mouth, scratches at his shoulder, shifts uncomfortably. 

“You didn’t need one, you should have said hello,” says Richard, looking down at his shoes and Taron makes a weird noise and gestures with his hand again, as Richard continues. “I should have said hello! We didn’t say hello…”

“So the first time you met was for this movie?” asks the interviewer.

Richard purses his lips and Taron covers his mouth again, says, “Ah, yeah, Richard, ah… Richard…”

“… came to meet you at Abbey Road,” prompts Richard.

“You came to meet us at Abbey Road. Dexter had fully decided that Richard was the man.” Richard is just gazing lovingly at Taron; he can tell. He ignores him, looks the other way so as not to fall into his eyes on camera. “And Richard came and had a chat with us. I was recording some music, I think, and it was lovely. You were wearing a great shirt! It was sort of bluey brown, short sleeves?”

“I know the one,” nods Richard.

“Ah, you know the one?” says Taron. “I don’t know where it was from. It was very beautiful though.”

Taron’s going to pay for that later, because it’s the shirt Taron ripped the buttons off, ripped a little more than buttons, if he's honest, that drunken night before they filmed Carpool Karaoke, and Richard loved that shirt and has never forgiven him for it, even if the sex was incendiary. Now that he thinks about it, maybe he should buy Richard a replacement shirt, identical, so they can re-enact that scene on their anniversary. The thought makes him warm all over and he has to be careful — the camera is still rolling, after all.

* * *

“D’ye ever think,” asks Richard, when they’re back in their hotel room, “about what life would be like if we hadn’t got together?”

“All. The. Time,” says Taron, grimacing.

“And?”

“I reckon I would have ended up back with Emily. We would have caught up when she was back in London, and we would have talked, and I wouldn’t have been able to come up with a good reason why we split, would have blamed character bleed or something…”

“You’d’ve taken her to the BAFTAs instead of me,” adds Richard.

“Right. She wouldn’t look nearly so gorgeous in a tux, though,” says Taron, leaning up to kiss Richard. Richard hums into it, thoughtfully.

“What about you, then?” asks Taron. “You’d’ve gone to LA. What then?”

“I’d be living there,” says Richard. “Shacked up with some hot American twink, I’d hazard.”

Taron laughs. “Wouldn’t have thought blonds were your type.”

“Who says he’d have to be blond?” asks Richard. “Didn’t I tell you Brandon spent the whole week I was at his place flirting with me? If you hadn’t been waiting for me in London, it would have been extremely tempting…”

“No, you did not,” says Taron, sternly.

“In my defence, we didn’t do a lot of talking on my return, if I recall correctly,” says Richard.

“I’ll let you off the hook this time, then,” says Taron, and Richard murmurs, _ Ta_, and kisses him.

“I just keep thinking about all the missed opportunities and then I think how close we came to missing _ this _ opportunity,” says Richard. “If you hadn’t been brave…”

“Oh, darling,” says Taron. “There are a thousand moments when our lives can change in the blink of an eye. But, seriously, I think we were meant to end up together — those roles, on _ Rocketman_? At exactly that time in our lives? What are the odds? _ When true love takes a grip, it leaves you without a choice._”

“Ye’ve always got the perfect lyric, don’t you, my darling?”

“Uh huh,” agrees Taron. “Now get those clothes off and ravish me, sweetheart. I have a flight to Seoul in three hours, and you know, _ sometimes I fantasise about you too_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can, click through and listen to the interview — you'll see why I had to write this fic. If you're wondering why the posted date on the video says May 31 but I have Taron going to Seoul straight after, it's because I worked out, when I was writing _bromance_ that all of those interviews with that blue shirt Taron is wearing were shot on May 21 in London the day after the London premiere even though the American outlets didn't air them till after the American release date, presumably due to embargoes.
> 
> I feel like I owe apologies again to Brandon and Emily, who truly have done nothing wrong apart from be the partners of some hot men we're all enjoying fantasising about.

**Author's Note:**

> Since heavensfallingaroundus also appears to be a queen bee that a number of us have fallen under the spell of, this is yet another fic with Arctic Monkeys lyrics and title despite them having nothing to do with Rocketman. That's all her influence. But damn if "Do I wanna know?" doesn't fit perfectly into this little fic, so again, not complaining really.
> 
> Apart from the obvious change of when they met and the idea that they got together at all, I've done my best to stick to 'canon' timelines and I've put a whole lot of little references in here for seriously obsessed fans like me, so I hope you enjoy. I'd love to hear if any of those made you particularly happy. :-D
> 
> If you wanna come chat over on tumblr, I'm [mordwen](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mordwen) over there, and I only bite if I'm asked nicely…


End file.
